Welcome to Survival of the Fittest, a RPing board loosely based off of Koshun Takami's Battle Royale, with its own unique plot and spin on the 'deadly game'. We've been around quite a while, and are now in our thirteenth year, so don't worry about us going anywhere any time soon!

If you're a newcomer and interested in joining, then please make sure you check out the rules. You may also want to read the FAQ, introduce yourself and stop by the chat to meet some of our members. If you're still not quite sure where to start, then we have a great New Member's Guide with a lot of useful information about getting going. Don't hesitate to PM a member of staff (they have purple usernames) if you have any questions about SOTF and how to get started!

Why him? Why the heck Conrad? Out of all people in Arizona, in the US, in the world, it was him, his girlfriend, his classmates, Kizi. Why the hell. Why the fuck?

His smartphone was gone, he was on an island. He had no control about how long he’d live.

All he had was a shitty bag, assigned to him so he could murder people. The terrorists told him about the bag, the game, the rules. The impossibility to escape it. This is horrible. No...

A forceful voice echoed the cliffs.

“NO! NO!”

He gasped for air.

“Nooooo.”

He screamed through the Northwest Cliffs. He screamed loudly. Conrad couldn’t recall when he ever had been so loud before. In a basketball match maybe? No, now he was louder. He screamed so loud, his throat hurt. His throat hurt. The last time he screamed so loud was when he was kid, probably. He screamed at his parents, throwing tantrums. That was when he screamed that loud last time. But now his voice was stronger.

His lungs were empty, he stopped. Tears flooded. Tears were swiped away.

He had a halberd in his hands that was as tall as him. A fucking halberd. He was supposed to fucking slice people up with it or stab them. For the terrorist. Fucking no. Why?

He hated this. He threw the halberd to the ground. It could not be destroyed that way. It could not disappear from his view, this weapon. He picked it up again. Looked around. Something to hit with it. He took some steps and mashed it against the barbered wire. Fucking destroy this weapon, fuck this weapon, fuck this wire, fuck this game, fuck everything. Ultimately he threw the halberd back on the ground and tried to calm down.

Clarice was someone who was generally very expressive about her anger. About when she thought something was wrong, or bad, or whatever. Anyone who'd made a joke at the expense of a minority group near her—Bradley, in particular—knew that it was a surefire way to get her stomping over to tell them just how wrong they were. And maybe, sometimes, she wasn't the best at controlling her anger, even if she always stopped short of punching anyone.

Clarice prided herself on being straightforward. On being unafraid to confront what was bothering her.

How did you confront something like this?

So she was angry, yes. She was afraid. Fuck, she was about ready to shit herself. But none of the emotion was really… coming out. It was just bottled inside her, because she just didn't know how to express it. She could feel it tightening in her throat and prickling at her eyes, but it didn't come out.

Even as she stared at the can of air freshener that was her only weapon.

Sick fucks.

Clarice stared at the can, then back in her bag. Food. Meds. A small bag that she'd brought on the field trip. Her camera had been taken. Her phone. Anything she could write with. They'd only left a packaged lunch. After some consideration, Clarice transferred the packaged lunch to the main bag before tossing her regular bag aside.

“...Shit,” she muttered after a while. It came out more as a whimper. It was all she could get out. All the anger and fear was just burbling up in her throat like bile, and she needed to… needed to something. Yell, scream, cry.

She'd opened her mouth, perhaps to do so, when another scream tore through the area instead, completely taking the wind out of her sails.

Clarice looked down at the can of air freshener before sticking it into her jean pocket. She picked up her bag and headed for the screaming. Following the path lined with barbed wire, the cliffface dropping sharply away into the ocean beyond.

Fuck, the ocean was big. Big and sparkly and such a weird fucking thing to notice right now, but she'd never seen the ocean before in person. How could she, when she'd never been further than Kayenta? This was not the way she'd wanted to see it.

The screaming had tailed off into a lot of crashing noises. The fence was shaking a little, the shaking getting heavier the closer she got to the screaming. At which point, Clarice got close enough to see her rather sweet, even-tempered boyfriend trying to smash the shit out of the fence with a freaking halberd.

Clarice didn't hide. She totally didn't hide. Maybe she took a couple of steps back, watching Conrad go to town on the fence, which held sturdy despite the aforementioned freaking halberd. She waited, and maybe she clung onto her bag strap just a little tighter than normal.

And when he seemed to calm down, and he swore, she cautiously took a step forward again.

Clarice. Instantly, he got up, swiped away every tear that remained and walked to her to hug her.

Out of all people he met, it was Clarice. His Clarice. Him and her were sitting next to each other in the bus and everything was alright. Back then. Before the gas, before the terror. He was chewing his strawberry-flavoured gum and they leaned on each other.

But then, tiredness, fatigue came. A room. Terrorists.

That moment, when all of his schoolmates were captured. It was so spooky, it was so quiet. The students of Cochise were never that quiet. If they had gotten to the science museum instead of being abducted, the whole Cochise crowd would have been loud, so much louder. But back then it was so silent. And silence was something Conrad couldn’t stand.

So he broke the current silence, whispering something to Clarice’s ear.

“We shouldn’t have gone to the trip. We really should not have.”

It was a bad decision. Now they are going to die. But to be fair, no one expected that. Especially not him. Conrad was not a person who put himself with these hypothesis. He never imagined being killed in a car accident. Nor being abducted.

The horror that occurred couldn't get out of his head. Before the trip, he was glad that Mr. Graham went to the trip, because he was one of his favourite teachers, always fun. Now that's not the case any longer. He regretted wishing that and everything else. If they had stayed home.

“What are we going to do, Clarice? What should we do? I am so baffled right now.”

As he said that calmly and hugged her more, he could feel the black, cold metal against his neck, resulting in goosebumps. No control about his life or her life. He tried hard to not cry in front of his girlfriend again.

Clarice clung back. Okay. Conrad was still Conrad, he hadn't flipped his shit entirely. That was something. After squeezing him tightly for a moment she loosened her hold a little.

“Sucks, huh?”

Understatement of the century. God, this more than sucked. Her and Conrad and… jesus, was Scout here, too? Which of her friends were? Which had stayed behind? Her mind lagged a little. She couldn't remember who had and hadn't been on the trip.

“Well, we couldn't have known. It's bullshit, though.”

Clarice let go and moved out of the hug before Conrad. She needed to move. As comforting as a hug could be, staying still—trapped—right now made her uneasy.

She shook her hands as she paced about, like she was drying them. Just so she could do something with them. It still didn't feel quite real, like she'd wake up any second now. Fuck. Moving back and forth past the barbed wire.

Something glinted in the light nearby. A camera at the base of part of the fence, blending into the metallic background, the sunlight shining off it. Clarice stared at it for a moment, then looked away. Sick fucks.

She had the overpowering urge, for a split second, to just… kick the camera. Smash that stupid glass in. Those sick fucks, using such an amazing medium such as film for such a fucking disgusting purpose. If she'd already been holding a weapon, she really might have smashed the camera to pieces.

But in the time it took her to pull her foot back she came to her senses. Remembered the rules. Death might be inevitable, but that was just senseless. Instead, she did a weird, awkward little hop, put her foot back down and turned back to Conrad.

They couldn’t have known. That was true. SOTF was a thing from the past, not from 2015. They could not have know what was going to happen. Still, Conrad was extremely angry.

This had not have to happen. They don’t have to die. Their lives did not have to be ended.

Clarice saw a thing. An enemy? No, apparently it was a cam. They see them. They hear them.

“Let us free, Danya. Please.”

This waking up had taken more energy from him than any basketball game and swimming marathon together. He just wanted Danya to listen to him, and just let all of them go out alive.

But, Clarice perfectly stated it already. It sucked. His life was over. He had no clue what should be done. Play the game or die. He could play, and he bet he was capable of being stronger than some other students, but...he doubted he was a boy to win this. Perhaps that is possible. After winning something like SOTF he’d be screwed up, though. His body will be fucked up, maybe he would lose a limb. His mind will be screwed up, although to be honest, it already was. Conrad picked up the halberd and went to the cam.

“Let both of us free, or I will smash this weapon at the cam. If you don’t want this offer, I will destroy it. You lose one cam, you lose one potential player.”

Conrad felt extremely nervous. No. He did not want to die. As heroic this death would sound, he did not want to die. He’d rather not. Conrad dropped the weapon and turned back to Clarice.

“Perhaps we can find our classmates. Maybe no one will kill.”

As Conrad spoke out the last sentence, he could feel that it was not the truth. He knew his classmates.

Clarice's expression on watching Conrad basically beg the cameras for freedom was one of irritated, slightly embarrassed confusion. Even if there had been a chance of them listening, begging the terrorists for freedom—or watching Conrad do it on her behalf—made her stomach turn.

“Ugh, don't even bother with that,” she said, her voice coming out harsh. “They're not gonna kill thousands of children then let us go because we asked nicely. They're probably getting off on it. And don't go smashing shit, they'll just kill you.” She said that last part in a tone that suggested that she totally hadn't been about to kick that camera.

She dug her fingers into the fence, pressing her face against it and peering out at the ocean glittering in the sunlight. She couldn't see it completely, because the stupid fence obscured it.

“Besides, we ain't the only two here. I gotta find Scout, if she's around. Dad and Debbie'll kill me if I don't.” She paused, then awkwardly said, “Not the best turn of phrase to use right now.” She made a face. “I do wanna find people, but there's gonna be some idiots who start shooting.” There were a lot of people she wouldn't put it past. And as much as she'd love to believe her class was the exception to a rule proven five times over...

She glanced at the halberd Conrad held in his grip. For a split second, she felt jealous that he'd gotten an actual weapon. Then she felt relieved. At least she couldn't be tempted to use something she didn't have. But then again, there was a difference between murder and defending oneself. But then again times two, how did she find the line between defending herself and murder when the weapon in question was a fucking halberd?

“Yes, it is”, he said while picking up again. “Even though I think you have an easier time holding it.”

He looked at it. It was heavy, dangerous, it probably was deadly. But Clarice was also right that there were idiots shooting. And then they would die, definitely. This halberd couldn’t help against bullets. She also was right that he shouldn’t bother. The terrorists don’t give a damn whether they died or not. Conrad should ignore Danya.

Clarice wanted to find Scout, her sister. Did Conrad also have persons he wants to meet? Kizi. Perhaps. He was not sure if finding people he liked was a good thing. It probably was, it could really ease his mind.

“Won't do much against a gun. But it's scary-looking. Maybe that'll help.”

Clarice knew from past experience chasing bullies away from kids that looking scary counted for a lot when it came to fights. Sometimes it would end them before they could really start.

She removed the can of air freshener from her pocket, holding it up. “It's better than this, at least. What am I going to do? Defend myself with the fucking pine-fresh scent of… whatever?! Shit, just… shit!”

She started pacing again, more agitated than ever, her voice getting louder the longer she spoke.

“Fuck, Conrad, what the fuck can we even do?! Every time we find someone it'll be a risk, they're not all just gonna let us hold hands and sing Kumba-fucking-ya! It's bullshit! It's fucking bullshit!”

Clarice threw her hands in the air before wheeling around to glare at the fence and the ocean beyond.

“And this… this barbed wire fence in front of the ocean is way too fucking on the nose!” she yelled, waving her hands at it. “Fucking… cinematography symbolism bullshit is what it is! Fuck!”

She wouldn't fucking film a murder island like this. Not that she'd film one at all.

Conrad would have smiled at the can, if it wasn't for the situations. But perhaps, her having a garbage weapon also meant that other people had garbage as well. He showed no reaction. It felt wrong to react to this in any way. It was not something he reflexively knew the proper reaction to.

Clarice had a good question as well. What could they do? They really could not trust other people. Clarice could trust Conrad. Conrad could trust Clarice. But would they trust an Aiden? The more people they would give their trust, the more likely it will be that they won't wake up when sleeping next to a person they falsely trusted. Conrad rubbed his chin. What could they do.

"What we could do...there are not many possibilities, are there?"

He did not want to say that they should play the game, but...

"We could try to protect ourselves. Try to outlast the other persons, until we're the only ones left? I don't know, Clarice. I don't know what other options would be possible."

What other options did they have? They had rules, given by the terrorists. Break them and die. Don't break them, also possibly die, but with a small chance of not dying.

“Are you seriously considering playing? Because that's what you just fucking said,” Clarice said, turning towards him with the furious expression normally reserved for Bradley and his bullshit. “Y'know, if you want us to play the game at least say 'let's play the game,' don't fucking try to get around the fact that it's what you'll be doing.

“But hey. Because why not, huh? Except for the fact that outlasting everyone means either watching our friends and family die or full-on murdering them ourselves. The fact that it means we will be doing exactly what those sick jerk-off sons of bitches want, that it'll just be proving that their stupid game works. And the fact that the two of us 'outlasting'—“ At this point, Clarice sketched fake quotation marks in the air. “—everyone else means that one of us is going to have to kill the other. Although I guess that'll be a fucking guaranteed victory for you, because you can be damn sure I'm not gonna kill you!”

She took a deep breath, and then yelled, “Fuck that! I'm not playing!” She crossed her arms and glared at him. “But if that's the way you're going, we got a problem. I swear to all that's not shit, you are so much more 'con' than 'rad' right now.”

Clarice had never been that angry at him. He had seen her angry, but not towards him. Or rather that serious. He was baffled. He had no idea how to reply to her. He could not repeat his idea, or support it anymore. That would not be a good idea. To Clarice, the idea of his was not a concept she could agree with.

"Sorry, my bad," he said calmly, looking down on the ground. It was a stupid idea. Dumb. There were flaws. That one of them has to die. That was the problem. The one person as a winner rule. He looked back up.

"Hey, I would not kill you either. Or anyone. But to be fair, it is not about winning. It is about not dying. You know?"

Conrad wasn't sure if that what he had said made sense, but it did not have to. He was extremely nervous and he could not think clearly under that much pressure.

He should try to find a way to make Clarice not think he was someone who wanted to kill people, turning back from Clarice, to the cam again.

"Danya. Why do you do this, Danya? Other terro-", Conrad shouldn't use the word 'terrorist'. It had too many negative associations. Perhaps the terrorists did not perceive themselves as terrorist, but as the good guys. "People, who support Danya. Why do you do this? Why do you support him and this game? You are all free people, you can choose to not follow his orders."

Conrad doubted that this suggestion would let Danya to be overthrown by his underlings, but hopefully, it would resolve Clarice being mad at him. Maybe she will trust him again. That is what Clarice wanted, right? Not following the terrorists, breaking the system.

“Well, they have it their way and winning and not dying will be the same thing,” Clarice said grumpily. Her anger was quickly cooling again. She had to believe Conrad had just said that without really thinking. He wasn't going to kill anyone. Fuck, she had better taste in men than ones who started murdering the moment the option came up.

Her frustration increased again once Conrad started trying to talk to the cameras once more. The terrorists were probably laughing at them, and fuck if she wanted to give them anything else to grin over.

She pressed her face back against the fence. Really, it wasn't as if everything Conrad had said was completely stupid. It wasn't so much 'outlasting' that she had an issue with. It was outlasting at the expense of everyone else.

“Maybe there is some way to wait this out as a whole. Not until we're the last two, but… if we find everyone left who's not going to be an idiot and… fuck, I don't know. Maybe there's some way we can wait until help comes. I mean, it won't be like the last time this happened, right? People will know when our bus doesn't come back that… that… y'know?”

It was a long shot, but it was better than playing. It was better than going along with their shit. And if they gathered everyone, and unanimously agreed to lay down arms…

Well, the terrorists would probably kill them. It wasn't an idea that appealed to Clarice, either. She wasn't big on being martyrs if it could be avoided. But it was a start. It was better than killing each other. Better than letting this game run like it always had. Like it always would if everyone always fell into the same trap.

“How many abandoned islands can there be?” she muttered under her breath. Someone had to be looking. Maybe if they found a way to make this game run longer. But they couldn't do that unless everyone was on the same page.

Isabel walked slowly towards the northwest cliffs, running the padlock that she had been given as a weapon across the chainlink fence as the sea roared against the jagged rocks below. The clinking and clanking of the padlock against the chain links was keeping her calm, even if it announced her presence to her classmates. She had woken up just an hour or two earlier, or at least she thought she did, she wasn't entirely sure of the exact time frame that she woke up. Isabel figured that most of her classmates would react with shock, sadness, and panic upon waking up in their dire circumstances. Isabel didn't care about that though, she had already gotten through all of that the second she woke up to her science teacher being executed.

No, Isabel, more than anything, was just angry.

Isabel had screamed in frustration when she woke up. She had spent her entire life up to this point doing exactly what her parents wanted her to, whatever she could do to make them happy so they wouldn't mistreat and punish her. She had barely been able to live a life of her own. All she had was the books she read in the one or two hours of peace she would get a day. Sometimes she wouldn't even get that. It was driving her mad, sometimes she didn't even sleep because of all the stress that she was experiencing. She was so excited that high school was drawing to a close; she finally had a chance to get away from her parents and start living her life the way that she wanted to, not the way they wanted her to.

All Isabel wanted was some control over her own life- over something. She always felt like she was just a passenger along for the ride, never the driver allowed to make her own decisions. She felt like vomiting.

But now any chance of Isabel having any control over her own life had been taken away from her. Now a group of terrorist extremists with no known goal had decided that she and her classmates were going to die in a deadly game, and the terrorists were going to force them to do it to themselves. She realistically had no chance of ever making it out. Someone was going to kill her, she might even kill herself. She was doomed the moment her class was picked to be the latest victims of survival of the fittest.

Isabel stopped her movements, the clanking of the padlock against the fence stopping with her. She pulled the sock that had formerly been on her left foot out of her bag and slid her padlock back into it. Not much of a weapon, but an improvised bludgeon was all she could manage with such a poor excuse for a "weapon" that the terrorists have given her to survive. She kept the key she had been given in her pocket. Perhaps she could stab someone's eye out with it if she needed to.

Isabel stopped when she heard a loud scream. Someone was shouting at the top of their lungs. Maybe they just woke up and were angry like her, maybe she had stumbled upon a kindred spirit. Or maybe she had just stumbled into a murder scene. Either way, against her better judgement, she kept trudging in the same direction she had been heading: towards the source of the noise. Her mind was blank as she listened in the direction of her movement. Two voices, talking. Probably not a murder scene then, unless it was two kids double teaming some poor schmuck. She kept walking, listening. The voices grew less indistinct as she approached. Eventually she rose above a hill crest and finally saw them. Clarice and Conrad. Isabel knew them, and she knew they were dating before all this happened. She also knew that they probably weren't too fond of her given her love of spreading rumors and verbally abusing her classmates.

Isabel froze, not knowing what to do, not knowing if she should just call out to them or stand her ground or run away. She had no idea how these two would react to seeing her. They were maybe ten meters away, it was really easy to see her. She swallowed the spit that had been building up in her mouth, not moving, not thinking. Only staring.

17:32 Mimi: Everyone has their place in society. His is with tractors.

19:26 Harbinger: Manhunt is like victorian porn19:26 Monad: Isn't that bad like, quality? Or isn't as bad as they say in terms of nastiness?19:26 Kilmarnock: Aside from Piggsy's shadowy schlong.

22:45 SpiralAgnew I'M TALKING ABOUT HOW AWESOME IT IS TO WORK AT NINTENDO22:45 Medic SPIRAL22:45 Courtney Hey Medic22:45 SpiralAgnew IN FRONT OF MK22:46 Outfoxd ..Wait, do we punch Spiral in the dick now?22:46 Outfoxd FUCK YOUR DREAMS22:46 Outfoxd OoO22:47 TurtleTyrant we are punching him in the dick?22:47 Courtney That'll be the most attention his dick has gotten...ever.

22:47 Guest13519 He'd probably like getting punched in the dick though.22:47 Courtney Only if by androgynous looking girls.22:48 Guest13519 Who look and act about 12?22:48 Courtney I really don't know.22:48 Courtney Ask him.22:48 Courtney I mean he's right here.22:49 SpiralAgnew Sorry, I couldn't hear you22:49 Outfoxd I gotta go to bed22:49 SpiralAgnew I was too busy riding that Nintendo high

22:26 Mumu: robots are sexy22:26 Mumu: like that bitch from The Jetsons22:27 TurtleTyrant: do you find this robot sexy?22:27 Slayer: :|22:27 TurtleTyrant: [Image of Bender]22:27 Lancer: Who wouldn't?22:27 Kilmarnock: If anything, Bender's sexier than Rosie.

21:42 Flarez: MurderWeasel - You can tell what kind of site we're on because we get confused on which particular infirmary massacre we're discussing.21:42 MurderWeasel: Welcome to chat and SOTF!

"Waiting it out, sounds like a good plan...", he took a break to take a deep breath.

Living more days sounds like a good thing. They were like 100 students. If theoretically they would just kill 1 person per day, they would have 100 days. Not that this would be realistic, but that was worth a thought. Waiting it out.

"I do not know, Clarice. There probably are a lot of islands in the world. The ocean is-"

Oh.

A girl came. Isabel. She was not a nice person. But Conrad could handle that.

He did not know what to do with his halberd he held. Drop it, to show friendliness? Raising it to show power? No, not raising it. Clarice would be pissed if he threatened Isabel. He chose to lower the halberd. But not to drop it, after all he needed to be able to protect them.

Well, she could have a gun. Then, even using the halberd would be useless. And then it would be over for Clarice and Conrad. No life for them anymore.

Clarice had been about to say something about how, sure, there were a lot of islands, but most of them probably didn't have enough intact structures. But Conrad trailed off before he finished, his attention elsewhere. Clarice moved away from the fence and took a step back so she could see.

Ah. Isabel. Clarice did not like Isabel, under normal circumstances. She was a petty bully, and there wasn't much Clarice disliked more than that.

But, even as Clarice moved forward a little, carefully putting herself between Conrad and Isabel—and she couldn't have really said who she was protecting, if anyone—she didn't think Isabel was the sort to fly off the handle too fast, either. She was a verbal bully, not a physical one.

So Clarice slipped the can of air freshener into her pocket before showing her empty hands to Isabel. Her expression was noticeably annoyed, but not hostile.

“It's fine. We're not playing. Are we, Conrad?”

That last sentence came with a warning glance in Conrad's direction, and a slight hint of steel in the tone.